


For my Next Trick I'll Need a Volunteer

by whatsacleverusername



Category: Original Work
Genre: Biblical Reinterpretation, Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Demons, Gen, Inspired by Music, Magic, Magic-Users, Magical Artifacts, Not even once, Original Fiction, Original Universe, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Snark, Swords, don't do immortality, i guess?, it's my canon and I get to choose the violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:13:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23690641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatsacleverusername/pseuds/whatsacleverusername
Summary: Another previously written piece I've edited and spruced up, this time from way back in August/September of 2017. This was intended to be a sort of introduction to my original fiction, but I really ought to make a more improved story to better serve that purpose.
Kudos: 4





	For my Next Trick I'll Need a Volunteer

It’s a cold night in Harlem. As he drives down the curiously all but empty streets, the rain crashing down on the windshield like splintering glass, Antonio finds himself stuck alone with his mind once again. It doesn’t help that the less than legally acquired Cadillac’s radio is busted. He can’t keep his thoughts from turning back to his family, or rather what’s left of it. His half brother and his grandfather are really all that remains bloodwise, plus a few people that have practically become family. Of course, he has an abundance of uncles, but almost all 11 of them are insufferable assholes. And the four that aren’t only ever really show up when the proverbial shit hits the equally metaphorical fan. As often as that seems to be, they must have standards for their “divine” interventions. Quite literally _divine_. One of the innumerable cons of being directly related to being a contractually immortal half-angel. Antonio breathes a heavy sigh, rolling down the window just enough to flick a cigarette butt out onto the streets. He truly hates being stuck with himself like this… His prayers are soon answered however, as the radio suddenly screams back to life in the darkness, causing Antonio to swerve in alarm. Turning the volume down with a few old favorite choice words in Italian, he quickly runs over his more or less orders as well as the necessary precautions. This guy obviously isn’t interested in playing games.

Pulling up to the small theater, Antonio parks his car on the side of the street, grabbing his satchel out of the backseat and slinging it over his shoulder. The moon glares down on him through the falling icy diamonds as he quickly crosses the street. A small gesture of his ring hand is all it takes to dispose of the doorman and security guards, looking the other way as the suspiciously dressed man passes by, even as the metal detectors start screeching their alarm. He knows better than to look back, despite how ridiculous they always look with that trick. Climbing the stairs, he slips through to the front of the crowd, making it in the doors before anyone else. He hurriedly takes his seat in the front row, grumbling about the worst seat in the house as he slings his legs over the armrest. Much to his surprise, he’s only bothered once about the seat. With only a flash from a pair of tickets that admittedly aren’t his either, the annoyed couple turned to leave him alone. Just like magic.

After only 10 minutes, the show starts, sending up the first red flag of the night. _Since when do these shows run on time?_ Most of it goes by without any other oddities, minus a few hiccups here and there, at least nothing unexpected for a magic show. Though Antonio isn’t really there to actually ooh and ah like the rest of the crowd, of course. Once the curtains are drawn and the audience begins filing out back into the hall, he stays behind and slips backstage under the cover of the moving sea of people. It takes but a moment to single him out in the relatively empty room; the fantastic Pagliatri- _excellent translation_ \- standing there by the costume rack. At the sound of Antonio clearing his voice, the self proclaimed master magician nearly jumps out of his skin.

“Good show,” Antonio comments. “If I’m being honest, though, really think you would’ve done better at the NoMad.”

“I-I’m sorry?” Pagliatri asks incredulously.

“Just thought I’d share my thoughts,” Antonio explains with a shrug, searching for something in his satchel. “Figured it was only polite given this’ll inevitably end terribly for one of us. My money’s on you, unfortunately.”

“What are you talking about? Who are you?” Pagliatri continues, uneasily watching the unidentified stranger.

Retrieving a small rosary from his satchel and holding it out for the magician to see, all nonchalaunt friendliness disappears from Antonio’s voice as he says, “I think you know.”

An inhuman hiss escaping from Pagliatri’s lips, he bares his sharp serrated teeth as the skin on his face seems to puff up like scales, his pupils thinning to slits. He shrinks into himself, arching his back, his suit jacket poking up like spines along his back.

“Really? Hissing?” Antonio droned, rolling his eyes. “Is that the best you have?”

“What do you want, fledgling?” the now definitely inhuman Pagliatri asks, voice rigid and hoarse like a dying man’s last breath.

“It’s kind of obvious, Dennis,” Antonio says cooly, pulling another object from his satchel, a small bottle of liquid. “Can I call you Dennis? Mr. Hemingway? Or would you prefer Tzaron? Seems more fitting.”

“How do you know that name?” Pagliatri demands. “Who _are_ you?!”

“Let me make it simple for you.” Pulling the cork from the bottle with his teeth and spitting it off in a random direction, Antonio patronizingly says, “you demon, me demon killer. You give me magic toy, me make you death quick. You get that, Magic Mike?”

“You will never take it from me!” the demon yowls as it lurches forward, claws extended to strike.

Rather than the wicked claws sinking into Antonio’s body, Pagliatri collides against an invisible force in front of him. Staring at the half human before him, he remains completely still until Antonio flings the contents of the bottle at him. He shrieks when it makes contact with his skin, writhing on the ground at his feet.

Grasping towards one of Antonio’s ankles but never crossing the invisible barrier, he begs, “please, o’ mighty fledgling, spare me! I submit to your holy influence! I swear I will cease my wicked ways! I give you my wor-”

“‘Minor’ was really an understatement,” Antonio mutters. Louder, he says, “I don’t want your word, just the damn fox. You’re making this more effort than it needs to be.”

“I cannot give you this!” Pagliatri shrieks. “It is not mine to give!”

“ _I know_ ,” Antonio huffs. “That’s why I’m trying to take it. Now hand it over.”

“How can I when you have afflicted me so?!” he wails, returning to his increasingly overdramatic convulsing.

With a vexed huff, Antonio flicks his finger upwards. In an instant, all of the clear liquid shoots into the air to hover above the demon, the half-human keeping his finger poised with an arched eyebrow.

“I-” His mind seems to race at supersonic speeds for a few seconds as Antonio gives him a dark look and purposefully twitches his finger, the liquid following suit. With a deep sigh, he opens his suit jacket and retrieves a small fox effigy made of amber, grumbling, “I surrender the totem to you, mighty fledgling.”

“Would you stop calling me that?” Antonio snaps, attempting to snatch the figurine away.

Rather than retrieve his target, his wrist is seized and pulled forward, the figurine disappearing in thin air. He stumbles and falls to the ground, Pagliatri immediately rolling on top of him to wrap his hands around his neck. Antonio releases the liquid from its invisible hold in the air, which falls onto Pagliatri’s back, sending him writhing in pain once again. Antonio forces him off and presses his foot into the demon’s stomach. He produces a sword from the satchel at his side, pressing the edge of it against Pagliatri’s throat as he rubs his own, grimacing slightly at the sting. Pagliatri screeches in defiance and agony, struggling under Antonio’s weight until he feels the cold blade against his throat.

“Hand it over now and I won’t make streamers out of your intestines,” Antonio fumes, pressing the weapon harder against the inhumanely pale skin.

“I concede! I concede!” Pagliatri repeats. “Release me and I will hand over the totem! I swear, fledgling, I swear! I-”

“Hand it to me _now_ , _**then**_ we’ll talk,” Antonio argues.

With a defeated whimper, Pagliatri conjures the amber fox in his hand, this time allowing Antonio to grab it, much quicker than last time. He raises the sword again, but Pagliatri manages to catch it in his claws, a fews sparks flying from the friction.

“Please spare me!” he begs, clinging to the sword as Antonio tries to wrench it free. “Oh, I will do anything! I beg you, please! O’ merciful fledgling-”

“I said stop calling me that!” Antonio shouts, finally wrestling the weapon from Paglitri. “I’m not gonna kill you.”

It takes him a moment, but Pagliatri realizes what Antonio said, crying, “oh, thank you! Thank you!”

His praises are cut short when plastic is tightened around his wrists, the liquid evaporating completely. Another zip tie tightens itself around his ankles as Antonio lifts him up over his shoulder, grumbling to himself. He’s surprisingly light, thank god. He still isn’t 100 percent after that fight with the ogre.

“Wh-What are you doing?” Pagliatri whimpers.

“You said you’d do anything,” Antonio answers, “so you’re gonna show me how to work this thing. Now shut up before you get both of us caught.”

Without so much as even one questioning glance, they make it outside and into Antonio’s Cadillac, Pagliatri being carelessly tossed in the back seat. Antonio starts the vehicle in silence, the radio emitting a happy tune as he flies down the still eerily empty New York streets.

They both remain in taciturnity for a few minutes before Pagliatri speaks up, asking, “if I may… Why do you so hate the title of fledgling?”

“I’m sure as hell no angel,” Antonio grumbles, “and I hardly count as human.”

“I see…” Pagliatri goes silent for another moment before continuing, “may I be freed, sir?”

“You’re a magician, you figure it out,” Antonio says with a smirk, glancing at the demon in the rearview mirror. “And now, if you would-” he stops the car with a hard brake at a stoplight, sending Pagliatri rolling forward into the back of the front seat and onto the floor, something definitely cracking. “Shut up. I wanna hear my Zevon.”


End file.
